Wendy Tries It
by William Easley
Summary: One day in the fall after Weirdmageddon, an old enemy walks into the Mystery Shack, asking Wendy to do something she . . . really doesn't want to do. A short-short, complete. 'Cause Wendy is like the coolest person I know...
So in walks this tall, bearded guy in black bike leathers with, I mean, the spookiest eyes you could imagine. Remember that "Orphan Annie" comic strip, where everyone's eyes were just blank circles? Too young, huh? Well, Google an image of cartoon Orphan Annie, and that's this guy's eyes, irises so pale you couldn't see them, pupils not visible unless you were closer to him than anybody, including his mother, would want to get.

Wendy Corduroy had been busy multitasking: relaxing behind the counter of the Mystery Shack gift shop, reading a teen magazine on her phone, balancing the chair she had propped back, resting her feet on the counter, all while listening to "I Wantz Me Some Wild Girlz" on her earbuds. When the door opened, she glanced up irritably—guests usually invaded in packs, vomited out of tour buses, and rare was a solo dude strolling in the door—and then with a yelp of alarm she tried to scramble up, lost her footing, fell pretty hard on her butt, and somehow got wedged in between wall, counter, and toppled chair.

"Let me help you," rumbled a deep voice, and the guy reached over the counter and down, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her upright with all the effort a building crane would exert on a pillow.

She squirmed in his grip. "Let go of me, or I'll break this arm for real this time," she yelled, grasping his wrist in both hands. _Where was Soos? Where was Melody? Oh, yeah, they'd gone shopping because this was supposed to be a slack time—_

With Wendy on her feet again, Ghost Eyes turned loose and backed away, hands out, palms up, fingers pointing to the ceiling. His biker boots clonked on the wood floor with sounds like a gavel slowly rapping. "I mean you no harm," he said in what probably he meant to be a soft, placating tone that came out more like a wildcat gargling razor blades.

"Man, what are you doin' out of prison?" Wendy demanded hotly as she set the chair back up and glanced around for something—a golf club, a baseball bat, a _kaiken_ dagger rumored to be haunted by the spirit of a Samurai five hundred years dead—that could be used as an improvised weapon.

"I got my pardon," Ghost Eyes said, ending up with his back against the carousel display of postcards. "The board granted it because Gideon and all us henchmen helped fight against Bill Cipher. It came through yesterday, so today I'm making the rounds to people I got involved with."

"Pardon! _I_ haven't pardoned you!" Wendy snapped.

He looked down at the floor, his bushy brown hair and his turquoise headband hiding those weird eyes. "I know, Miss Corduroy. That's why I'm here. I'm askin' you to forgive me."

"What!" She felt her face glowing red, and she balled her fists. "Man, you're a convict! And when Bill was like crushing humanity, you went over to his side—you're an Eggs Benedict! Wait, Arnold Benedict. Is that right?

"Benedict Arnold," the big man said. "Yeah, he was a famous traitor in the American Revolution."

"I knew that," Wendy insisted with a frown. _Dang, I gotta quit sleeping through history class!_ "Just get out of here. Why do you even think you deserve forgiveness?"

Surprisingly, he said, "Forgiveness shouldn't be offered because it's deserved, but because it heals the anger in the forgiver's heart."

She blinked suspiciously. "Huh?"

The tall man shrugged. "Listen, I gave all this a lot of thought. We carry around so much poison in our hearts because we store up our petty angers and our frustrations and our bruised egos. We act like they nourish us, while in truth they slowly erode whatever is good and pure. Cleansing them isn't an act of emotion, but of will. I'm not askin' you to forget—nobody can do that—but to forgive. Won't you try it? It would help me, and I think it'll make you feel better, even if it's only a little bit."

Wendy shook her head, her red hair swaying, her chin firmly set.

"I ask you humbly and contritely," Ghost Eyes said, and his voice really did sound regretful. "Find it in your heart to forgive me. Please try it."

Wendy rolled her eyes in irritation. But she forced herself to say, "All right, dude, I'll try it if it'll get rid of you. Okay, man. I forgive you."

"Thank you. And I forgive you for wrenchin' my arm so hard I couldn't use it for days."

Anger flared up again. "Hey, man, you _deserved_ that!"

"True, I did, but after all I suffered the pain and I admit that I blamed you for it. Now I accept my responsibility for having provoked you, and I realize that harboring anger toward you for the hurt is not fair or just, and so I forgive you and let go of my hard feelings."

She glared at him. "Whatever, dude."

"Well—thanks." He sidled toward the door.

"Wait a minute," Wendy said.

He turned back toward her and waited expectantly.

"What are you gonna do now that you're out of jail?" she asked. "Not stayin' in town, are you?"

"No, no—well, I don't know. Maybe go to grad school."

" _What_!"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I have my A.B. in philosophy. But then when I graduated, I couldn't get a job. I checked want ads in a hundred papers for 'Philosopher Wanted,' and nobody was hiring. That's why I turned to a life of crime. But this time around, I figure I'll pick a better major."

Wendy sighed. "There's a punch line coming, isn't there?"

"No. I'll major in Business Administration."

She actually laughed. "Sounds like another prison term to me, man."

He smiled, quirking up the corners of his drooping brown mustache. "Well—I got a list of people to see, so I better, uh, you know, go on and, uh." He stood in the open doorway, looking back at her with those weird blank eyes. "Uh—total shot in the dark here, but I don't suppose you're into dating older guys?"

Ah. There was the _kaiken._ She snatched it up from the display case, tested the sharpness of the blade with a finger, and in an even, forceful voice said, "Get out of here, dude or you won't have any future interest in dating anybody."

"I forgive you for"— _whizz! THUNK!_ "—I'm gone!"

He slammed the door and a moment later she heard the growl of his motorcycle as he fired it up and blatted out of the parking lot.

 _Good riddance,_ Wendy thought as she went around the corner of the counter and over to the door. She grasped the handle of the _kaiken_ and worked it back and forward, pulling and tugging. She had hurled it so hard that it took her nearly half a minute to wriggle its blade free from the door jamb.

"Nice throw," came a voice like the whisper of silk in a light, cherry-blossom-scented breeze. "Ah—perhaps the maiden might wonder what dating a ghost would be like?"

She walked through the ghostly Samurai. "Specter dude, don't start in. Mess with me and I'll exorcize you, I swear!"

"Forgive me," the ghost said.

She glared at him. "Sure, whatever."

The transparent Samurai bowed and evaporated.

"Huh," Wendy said, replacing the Japanese dagger in the display case. "I actually do feel better now. Whattaya know, it works."

Humming a little, she settled back in her chair, plonked her boots back on the counter top, picked up her phone, found her place in the magazine, and again started reading the article that promised to teach her how to be more popular with guys.


End file.
